


bring your good times and your laughter

by dogworldchampion



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: (and by loads i mean baby mentions ignore me), F/M, amy's a new captain, it's all very exciting, loads of original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogworldchampion/pseuds/dogworldchampion
Summary: She moves behind her desk, savoring the feel of the new, heavy medals against her shoulder and the hat resting atop her perfectly smooth bun. Her desk is nearly bare, with only two framed photos perched below her desktop. There hasn’t been time for case files to accumulate, for her detectives and beat cops to need signatures or approvals or second opinions. The thought of the work excites her and terrifies her simultaneously, and it’s only as she’s sitting at this desk, so similar to that of her mentor’s, two precincts over, that the gravity of her situation hits her.She, Captain Amy Santiago, is the youngest captain in NYPD history.





	bring your good times and your laughter

**Author's Note:**

> aight so at this point y'all all know the drill i wrote something unbelievably fluffy and owe tumblr goddesses jakelovesamy and elsaclack everything i own. u should all know i love rae and ana (and eli but he isn't born yet) with my whole heart and that the title is from "celebration",,,so celebrate by letting me know what u think (comments or @the-pontiac-bandit on tumblr)

The door shuts behind Captain Amy Santiago (she’s been in official possession of that title for a full three hours, and she has every intention to use it on even her takeout orders, just to hear the sound). The click of the doorknob is louder than expected, and she pauses for a moment, hand hovering, to see if anyone outside noticed, but the chorus of “Celebration” is blasting so loudly that the blinds are rattling against the windows. She shuts them, suppressing a reflexive sigh at the thought of the confetti littering the bullpen - her bullpen - and focusing on the overwhelming joy of this moment.

She moves behind her desk, savoring the feel of the new, heavy medals against her shoulder and the hat resting atop her perfectly smooth bun (she’d spent at least an hour ensuring every hair was in place. It could’ve been half that time, but Rae and Ana, nothing short of tornadoes, had spun through their bathroom halfway through the preparations, already in their pajamas for the babysitter, to grab Amy by the bun and plant large toddler kisses on her forehead, leaving bumps in Amy’s ponytail that refused to settle). Her desk is nearly bare, with only two framed photos perched below her desktop. There hasn’t been time for case files to accumulate, for her detectives and beat cops to need signatures or approvals or second opinions. The thought of the work excites her and terrifies her simultaneously, and it’s only as she’s sitting at this desk, so similar to that of her mentor’s, two precincts over, that the gravity of her situation hits her.

She, Captain Amy Santiago, is the youngest captain in NYPD history.

She takes a deep breath, and then another. Then she lets her eyes flit to the frames. In the one on the left, four smiling faces fill a simple 4x6 wooden frame, messily decorated with her daughters’ misshapen squiggles that Jake swore a hundred times were supposed to be hearts (the ones that he actually drew, decorating one corner, are only slightly more discernible). Wide smiles and scrunched up eyes from her three favorite faces ease the sudden tension in her shoulders at the thought of the work ahead, and her own eyes crinkle, the smile she hasn’t been able to wipe off her face all night widening at the memory of clutching Ana closer to her chest, tickling her chubby two year-old belly, while Jake pressed his cheek against hers and held Rae in a vice grip to prevent her escape attempts, Charles tearing up a bit as he furiously snapped pictures.

Then, almost on instinct, her eyes move left, to the far older picture, faded with time and years at a desk that got afternoon sunlight. Her ugliest selfie-worthy grin on a face nearly six years younger, with Jake grinning goofily beside her. The picture had been on her desk since she was a detective in the Nine-Nine, when he’d been in prison and she couldn’t bear to look up from their shared desks and see anything other than his wide smile. She updates everything in her life with meticulous detail - the picture in the frame on the right is updated every six months like clockwork - but this one, this one has stayed.

Her hand has drifted to the medals, pinned to her dress shirt only an hour before to thunderous applause from Gavin, her partner from when she was a brand-new beat cop whose kids - toddlers when she met them - sit in college sweatshirts beside him; from her current precinct, with a crew of unruly, talented detectives holding up meticulously decorated posters; from her family at the Nine-Nine, grins so bright she thinks she’ll go blind; and from Jake, making a Taylor Swift-style heart with his hands, pride shining from his eyes with such strength it’s nearly palpable. It’s all a little overwhelming in her head, this much love and this much success and seeing her dreams all come true in front of her, knowing there’s so much work ahead. She just needs a minute.

She’s startled, drawn out of the memory, by the sound of the handle clicking open, and she’s already babbling excuses, pushing out of her chair to get back to the party being thrown in her honor just outside (the song changed to “Happy” at some point when she wasn’t listening). But then, almost as though she’d summoned him, Jake’s sliding through the small crack in the doorway, his eyes shining with so much affection that a lump rises in her throat at the sight, mixed with a tinge of concern.

“Hey,” he says quietly, turning the lock on the door behind him as he moves further into the room. “You good? I saw you leave earlier, and—“

She’s already moving to meet him, has her head buried in his collar before he can finish his sentence. His arms wrap around her on instinct, careful to avoid creasing her freshly pressed new uniform as he envelops her in his warmth. His breathing is steady against her chest, the air tickling the back of her neck on its way out to the room, and for just a few seconds, it feels like she could be back at home in his flannel shirt, Rae and Ana sandwiched between them as he holds them all close. It feels like home.

She can feel the manic energy draining from her body, sense the tension flowing out of her shoulders in his embrace. Her breathing slows as the job ahead becomes instantly more manageable. She knows Jake can feel it, too, because his arms shift around her, loosening just a bit so that she can look up at him.

“So, you’ve had a weird day,” he comments, a glint of laughter in his warm brown eyes. “Too bad mine was better - there were bacon-wrapped quiches at the after-party, and I had twenty.”

A giggle forces itself out of Amy’s throat at the thought. “So  _ that’s  _ where they all went,” she replies, noting with surprise that her voice is a little shaky. “No fair – I wanted some!” She slides one hand up his back to hit him in the shoulder.

“Well, you snooze, you lose,” he shrugs. “You were busy, and they just kept bringing more out.  _ Someone  _ had to eat them.”

“I was  _ busy  _ being congratulated by the chief of police of the NYPD for my ‘outstanding achievements’!” she retorts, hints of braggadocio and their old competitiveness driving the uncertainty from her voice.

“Damn straight you were.” His voice is unexpectedly soft in a way that brings a lump to her throat. He’s looking at her as though she hung the moon and the stars, and it melts her just as completely as it did this morning, when he caught her eyes over their daughters’ heads while he made oatmeal and she pulled silly faces to entertain them, and as it did nearly nine years ago when she pulled away from his lips in the evidence locker of the Nine-Nine.

It’s only when he pulls one hand off her shoulder blade and brings it up to swipe his thumb across her cheek that she notices she’s crying, that his thumb is wet and there’s a matching damp spot marring the collar of his dress blues.

She starts to babble an apology, her hands jumping to his collar to straighten it before the words spilling from her mouth find any semblance of coherency. But then he’s laughing, swatting her hand away, and reminding her firmly that a day when tears are the only thing that end up on his shirt counts as a win. At that, she lets out a watery chuckle, her fingers finding the spot on his chest, strategically concealed beneath his medals, where he’d spilled the applesauce he stole from their pantry in the car as they drove to One Police Plaza and poking it pointedly.

“Yeah, so maybe you took all the wins today, Ames. Some of us had to make  _ sacrifices _ to the karma gods for this.” He pretends to be offended, but he can’t wipe the smile off his face long enough to look affronted.

“I swear, you’re worse than Rae,” she laughs, the memory of her daughter’s ketchup-covered Sesame Street pajamas soaking in their kitchen fresh in her mind.

“She had to get it from somewhere,” he reminds her, unexpected pride in his voice. “I mean, the badassery,  _ that  _ comes from you, but I’ll claim the messy eating.”

“ _ Badassery _ isn’t a word, Jake.”

“Fine, then,” he replies with an exaggerated eye roll. “Badassicism, badassness, badassion, bada--point is, you’re it.”

She laughs as she leans in to give him a firm kiss, her lips smiling against his as his nose presses into her still-damp cheek. “I love you. So much,” she mumbles quietly as she pulls away. Her voice cracks a little bit on the last syllable, so she buries her face back in his shoulder.

“For realz, Ames, are you okay?” He asks, concern once again coloring his voice as he rubs small circles on the center of her back. She pauses for a second, trying to find her voice, to reassure him that she’s  _ fine  _ and  _ thrilled  _ and  _ totally freakin’ capable _ and  _ definitely not panicking,  _ but the words don’t seem to come. Three seconds pass, and then three more. And then Jake takes a deep breath, moving his shoulders against her cheek. “You know, it’s fine if you’re not.”

She looks up then, a little surprised. “No – I’m ok. I’m  _ happy _ , for sure. And excited for the challenge. And still a little shocked that I actually pulled it off. I’m just…really overwhelmed.” Her voice gets smaller at the end, shrinking to almost a whisper as her eyes drop away from his down to the buttons of his shirt. “What if I can’t do it?”

“Ames. You nerd,” he replies, without hesitation. “You just got promoted to your dream job, and you’re  _ so  _ badass that you’re the youngest person to have the job in  _ history _ . That’s a pretty great reason to be overwhelmed, and it’s okay to be terrified. You know I would be.”  

He frees an arm from her back, uses it to push gently against her chin so that she’s forced to meet his eyes, before he continues. “But you’re gonna do it. And you’re gonna do it better than anyone else  _ yet.  _ Because that’s what you do. And it’s okay to be scared, but tomorrow you’re gonna come into work and you’re gonna start kicking ass and as soon as the first case shows up on your desk you’re gonna relax because this is what you  _ do.  _ And you do it unbelievably well. Okay?”

He holds her gaze, his brow furrowed in concern. She’s busy remembering a similar speech, on a rooftop a billion years ago before what she was sure would be the scariest moment of her life. But for the gray touches by Jake’s temples and the hat perched on her head, she’d swear they were in the same spot, that she was an eager detective terrified of moving forward on her life calendar. But she’s not anymore. She’s done a billion things scarier than that test in the years since, Jake’s hand in hers, and he’s never once been wrong – she’s always been fine. So she squares her shoulders and nods firmly. “Okay.”

She wants to find the words for how much he means, for  _ I love you _ and  _ thank you  _ and  _ I couldn’t have done it without you _ . But she’s not sure her voice can manage to convey the sentiment, so instead she settles for a kiss on his cheek, her fingers brushing through his fluffy curls (she makes a mental note she needs to schedule him a haircut).

His eyes are closed, savoring the moment, for a few seconds after she pulls away. By the time he opens them, she’s busy smoothing her uniform, dabbing at her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.

“Am I good?” she asks him, standing to attention for a uniform check.

“You look gorgeous, babe,” he replies, his entirely serious tone contrasting sharply the goofy grin slowly breaking across his face.

“Not what I meant.” She rolls her eyes at him – a breach of stance nothing short of shocking – and waits patiently for his proper answer.

“Perfect uniform, Captain Santiago,” he replies, standing to attention and saluting, his face as serious as she’s ever seen it. At the sound of her new title, though, a smile so wide it threatens to crack her face in half breaks across her own.

“Ready to face Charles’ playlist?” he asks, only half kidding as he holds out a hand for her to grab, lacing their fingers together when she takes it.

“Never, but I don’t think I have a choice,” she groans, remembering for the first time in a while the party that awaits her on the other side of her door.

“Nope! I heard he added ‘Kokomo’ -  _ perfect  _ dancing music!”

“Don’t break a hip on the dance floor,” she grumbles, her smile widening as she gives his hand a squeeze and he opens the door, beyond which friends and laughter and octopus donuts await.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Santiago.” 


End file.
